On his first vocal album since 2019, the 35-year-old artist strips things down. The heartfelt tracks reflect on the ruins of his past while envisioning a brighter tomorrow.

If your timing had been sharper, if your city had been more exciting, if your wild nights had been even more reckless, and if your half-awake confessions had been more unfiltered, maybe you could have turned into Mac DeMarco. Around twelve years ago, after moving from the Canadian prairie to Montreal and later New York, DeMarco suddenly became the voice of Millennial malaise, the eternally dazed spokesman for generational letdowns who somehow became both unexpectedly and lastingly famous.

But if you never fell under the spell of the goofy, snaggletoothed slacker pulling silly expressions from under his ever-present ballcap, the lingering question was always: Why him? DeMarco’s singing often sounded like Kermit the Frog trying to woo Miss Piggy, or like any skinny kid spilling sad tunes at a house show. At the same time, everyone else searched for duct tape for a messy round of Edward Fortyhands. His guitar playing was recognizable but limited, almost like he had learned a handful of tabs from Ultimate Guitar in his bedroom as a kid and figured that was all he needed to carry rock’n’roll. His writing was sharp, giving shape to the push-and-pull between collapse and growth with a kind of lighthearted touch. But that talent by itself rarely turns into widespread fame. If you've ever been part of a local music scene, you probably knew someone like DeMarco; maybe you were even that person yourself. So why did he turn into the Mac DeMarco?

For me, the answer feels clearer than ever with Guitar, DeMarco’s charming sixth record and his first batch of non-instrumental songs since 2019’s delicate Here Comes the Cowboy. A lot has shifted in his world over those years. His somewhat distant father passed away, as did his cat, Pickles. He left Los Angeles for a quiet coastal town in British Columbia. He quit drinking in 2020 and gave up smoking two years later, a massive change for someone whose Brooklyn apartment once reeked of nicotine so severely that it gave a Pitchfork writer an eye twitch. He reached thirty, and just before Guitar came out, he hit thirty-five. He made it through, and he grew older.

The twelve songs here come from someone pausing to look back at the wreckage, then deciding to turn forward again hoping for a clearer road ahead. DeMarco recorded and played everything himself in two weeks at his Los Angeles home late last year. Guitar skips all the keyboards and studio tricks of his earlier work, sticking to electric and acoustic guitars with basic bass and drums underneath a voice that has never sounded so worn down, so hopeful, and so honest. DeMarco’s music has long been a kind of everyday escapism, a chance to peer into the head of someone you could have easily been. But on Guitar, he finally starts breaking free from his own history. This is his most straightforward and self-assured release yet, content to admit to some sadness, grateful to be able to move past it.

The most powerful moment on Guitar comes less than a minute into the fourth track, “Nightmare.” It begins in the middle of the rhythm, with DeMarco’s voice tumbling ahead of the beat like he has been waiting for someone who will listen to his worries. Maybe he argued with his partner, and she is still asleep in the other room. He admits it is almost a miracle that she has stayed with him this long. “Roll up those sleeves, boy,” he sings in a fragile falsetto, as soft as a stuffed animal. “Smoke the whole pack/There’s no turning back from this one.” In just a few lines, he captures the struggle of trying to pull yourself together, of wanting to be worthy of the life you have stumbled into. By all interview accounts, DeMarco’s partner, Kiera McNally, has shown remarkable patience, standing by him from the messy early days to their quiet present of tending olive trees on an island. Here he is, waking up low and still determined to do right by her.

In just two minutes, “Nightmare” captures both sides of Guitar DeMarco’s weary look at what he has been and his determination to build something better. The past sneaks up again in “Knockin’,” a simple country-funk tune where old regrets crash the party like unwanted guests at the new home he hopes to settle into for good. In “Home,” which has the feel of George Harrison in a haze, he thinks about people and places left behind, how meeting them again would feel like running into ghosts meant only to remind him of what he has lost. Each verse feels like a giant roadblock that DeMarco forces himself to climb over, pushing toward what lies ahead.

The songs about his future are what make Guitar feel so touching, like a long hug from a friend you thought was gone forever. “Sweeter” plays like a slow-motion heartbreak, a confession from someone who has repeatedly shattered a partner’s trust until she finally left. Yet DeMarco’s vow “This time, I will be sweeter/I can be much sweeter/Some things never change” is delivered so plainly that it feels impossible not to root for him, like he is a hopeless sports team always one move away from redemption. On “Punishment,” he searches for his center, almost like a secular prayer asking to discover the force that could protect him from his worst tendencies. “Holy” is even simpler, a heavy-footed plea for freedom from the “curse from down below.” DeMarco senses the old ties beginning to break apart, and maybe this time they will give way for good.

DeMarco’s debut came the same month I got engaged, his second not long before I turned thirty and got married. When his songs were all about late-night excess, I was wrestling with my own inherited habits, trying to step into adulthood. His music often felt like a cracked mirror showing me myself. Listening to Guitar, I get the feeling that DeMarco now understands that same transition, the arduous process of pulling away from patterns shaped by addiction in the family. These songs, part lullabies, part blues, suggest he is finally finding a new direction through honesty and a bit of hope. “All those days of trying to run/What a waste of breath,” he sings at one point, like he is releasing a sigh he has been holding his whole life. Maybe no matter the hardships, you too could be a little like this version of Mac DeMarco.